


An Honest Mistake

by meaninglessblah



Category: DCU
Genre: Civilian Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vigilante Jason Todd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-01-24 12:39:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18571690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Where Jason never had that fateful night with the Joker and stayed on as Robin, so Tim Drake never succeeded him. Jason and Bruce had a "be your own man" falling out, but now he's back on the team as Red, and he's handed over the mantle to Damian.--Tim’s going to med school. He’s said as much to his neighbours and his superintendent and his supervisor. Doesn’t stop the asshole from scheduling him on the dreaded seven-to-three night shift. At least he’s on a quiet ward tonight. It’s probably one of the quietest nights Tim’s had since he took up this nursing gig. He’s even got enough energy left in him for a brief late-night-early-morning shower when he stumbles back into his apartment around four a.m. He shucks his scrubs on the way over to the ensuite, yawning in the yellowed light. Tim’s down to his boxer briefs by the time his bare feet touch cold tile, and then he’s really, truly awake, because there’ssomeonein his bathroom.The man’s dressed in something that looks suspiciously like a motorcycle jacket, only sleeker and with a slice of accented ruby up the sides. Tim’s lived in Gotham for six years, so he knows exactly what that is.There’s a vigilante passed out on his bathroom floor.





	1. Tag, You're It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joverie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joverie/gifts).



The call goes out sometime after midnight. Jason’s the first to respond and the second to leave the scene. He lives closest to the docks anyway, his safehouse cosied up on the third floor of a sinking apartment block three suburbs over. So him landing squarely in the middle of an all-out gang shootout first isn’t to be unexpected.

Nightwing’s the second on the scene, slipping down from a fire escape on the wharfside to dislocate a gangster’s shoulder with the dropped kick he lands. Robin’s next, and the others aren’t far off his tail.

Jason didn’t call for backup, but when one of the gangsters pulls a semi-automatic, he doesn’t complain. The spray scatters the remaining mob, and Batwoman takes him down swiftly and brutally while the rest of them round up the stragglers.

Jason’s zip-tying an unconscious kid who doesn’t look much older than nineteen when he spots a startled someone dashing behind a stack of shipping containers, and straightens to follow them. This part of the docks is a maze, but Jason’s grappled over these containers enough times to have it memorised by now.

He rounds on the guy in a dead end and pulls a zip-tie. “You going to make this easy or hard?”

The gangster spins, eyes widening, and immediately pulls a pistol from his belt. Jason sighs and slows to a halt, boxing him in. “Stay back!”

“Wouldn’t do that,” Jason recommends, nodding at the gun. “You try to shoot me and I’ll knock some of your teeth out for the effort.”

The gun wavers between them, a timid threat. “If I shoot you-”

“You’re not going to land a shot from fifteen feet off when you’re shaking like a jack in the box. Put it down and we’ll have you sorted in a few minutes. Nothing scary about it.”

“I can’t go to prison,” the man mewls, and Jason sighs. They never think about that bit _before_ they commit the felonies, do they? Or maybe they do, Jason considers, and don’t think that the fantasy could slam back into reality so quickly. Maybe they think they’re the exception.

“Then don’t join a gang in Gotham,” he advises warmly. “Honestly, if you’d picked any other city, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But you picked good ol’ Gotham, where vigilantes are as common as weeds. So, that’s your fuck up, buddy. Last warning: put the gun down or you’re losing your front gnashers.”

The man starts crying. Honest-to-god, genuine sobbing. The gun sinks in his grasp a bit, and Jason’s so off put by the wailing that his shoulders sag and he represses a moan.

“Come on, man, comeuppance and all that,” he says half-heartedly. It’s god-awfully loud. The sort of sobbing that makes a man’s whole body tremble, the mewls high-pitched and ringing. The closed-in container maze only serves to amplify the noise, and it’s beginning to grate in Jason’s ears, so he takes a step forward, zip tie clenched in his grip. “Alright, big guy, time to go.”

“No, no,” the man panics, the gun wavering. “No, I don’t _want_ to-”

Jason’s reply is hard, annoyed. “I don’t care.”

“No, I-”

The gunshot rips through the ambience, clattering loudly in the enclosed space as the man stops crying abruptly, lapsing into silence. Pain laces hot and personal up Jason’s midsection, just beneath where he knows his spleen is, right through the meat of his abdomen.

He stutters to a halt, hand jumping immediately, reflexively for the wound as he finishes turning. He’d heard the footsteps, had felt the cold metal muzzle through the back of his suit and had been spinning to respond when the gun had gone off. Had taken a solid chunk out of his side, from how much blood was already leaking, sticky and red, into the seam of his suit. He can feel it seeping down to his hip bones, but he knows it won’t stain through for another hour at least. His suit’s kevlar exterior lining is good for a lot of things, including hiding bloodstains, but not as good at stopping point-blank projectiles.

There’s a kid standing behind him, the pistol still pointed at him, a stunned look painted on his features. This one’s even younger, maybe sixteen, and Jason spits a curse for whoever decided putting a glock in the hands of an untrained teenager was anywhere near a decent idea.

The next step he takes rips up his entire torso like fire, but he grits his teeth and drops the kid on his ass with a sharp punch to the throat.

Okay, so maybe a tad bit overeager, but effective nonetheless. And none of his vigilante siblings are here to reprimand him, so all-in-all, it’s no harm, no foul. Tree in the forest and all that.

He kicks the gun out of the kid’s reach while the teenager’s clutching at his dented windpipe and relearning how to breathe. Jason’s gaze sweeps over him, assessing, and notes that nah, he’s not getting up for a while yet. He turns back to the other gunman, who’s staring with a slack jaw.

“Now I’m pissed,” he admits coldly. “Drop it. Now.”

The gun clatters to his feet, and then rattles against the container wall when the gangster kicks it away, dropping to his knees and lacing his hands behind his head. He manoeuvres the man down to the ground with swift brutality, looping the polycarbonate over his wrists in the same motion. Jason focuses on yanking them tight instead of focusing on the searing agony in his side.

The teenager’s even easier to wrap up, and within ten minutes Jason’s launching a grappling wire and skipping across the container yard towards the nearest warehouse. The cops will be circling soon, and he doesn’t want to be around to play a fun game of cat and mouse when they do get here.

They’re sweet, they really are, thinking they can keep up with him and his ilk. And most nights he enjoys the chase. The threat of unmasking never really stuck with any of them, so even with the televised broadcasts that promise to bring Jason and his rogue vigilante siblings to justice, they cut it close most nights just to stoke the brave men and women of the GCPD’s hopes.

It’s when he leaps up to grasp the lowest rung of a fire escape in the next suburb over that the winds goes out of him and Jason realises okay, maybe, _fuck_ , that bullet went a bit deeper than he’d originally thought. He scales the fire escape anyway, teeth gritted to stifle the sharp scream that locks in his throat, and makes it to the rooftop before he has to lean up against a vent duct and turn his side into the light of the nearby digital billboard.

The LED deflect won’t decide if it wants to be white or pink or green, but even with the nauseating shadows, Jason can tell he’s ripped the wound open. He feels around a bit, locating the exit wound with a relieved sigh. That means he doesn’t have to fish out a bullet snub, which is always an appreciated boon. But it also means that he’s got two plugholes to fill if he wants to keep all his organs internal.

“Anyone left on the scene?” a voice buzzes in his ear, and Jason recognises the Bat’s terse tone through his comms.

“Boys in blue are on your doorstep,” Oracle replies, and Jason can hear the grin in her words, can see her bared teeth. “Might want to slip out the back real soon, B.”

“Roger that, Oracle,” he replies.

“Is everyone clear?” Batwoman asks, because she’s always the first to make sure the scene is clean of any evidence of their involvement.

“Clear,” Oracle answers.

“Clear,” Nightwing confirms.

Robin is next, his voice harsh and stern. Too stern for his age. “Clear.”

The Bat sounds only the barest bit out of breath when he updates with, “Clear.”

Jason lifts the hand that’s not holding his intestines in up to his comm. He has to reach around across his chin to do it, but he does. “Clear,” he sighs.

“See you chumps tomorrow,” Oracle chirps, and the line goes dead as she signs off. The Bat doesn’t say anything, but Jason knows he’s turning in for the night. Batwoman won’t be far behind either, once she’s confirmed the cops are up to their knees in gift-wrapped gangsters. The elders of their troupe are used to the spiel by now. They don’t stick around - in person or on the comms - for any after-mission banter. This is a job for them; just because their workmates are family doesn’t obligate them to lick their wounds or wax poetic wisdom into the later hours of the early morning.

Jason blinks up at the billboard, which has switched to a beaming woman who assures him that some name-brand toothpaste is “mintier than ever”, and realises that she’s swimming. He blinks again, digs his fingernails into the skin exposed around the bullet hole, and winces at the pain, lets it centre him and his swinging vision.

He’s not going to pass out on the rooftop of some random apartment plaza for some weed-smoking rebellious teen to find him in full costume. As much as he’d like to see how well the cops take that call.

His apartment, sequestered away in a neighbourhood only a sliver more disreputable than this one, is still fifteen minutes away. Jason’s good, but maybe not that good.

He doesn’t really have a choice. It’s there or Dick’s penthouse six minutes in the other direction. And be damned if he’s going to literally crawl to Nightwing for help.

No, he’s got this under control. He can cut fifteen minutes down to eleven if he takes the rooftops. As long as doesn’t exert himself too much, the wound shouldn’t rip any more than it already has. Even if it does, he’ll be able to stitch himself up and run through the standard first aid rigmarole as soon as he drops down into his tiny ensuite bathroom. He’s done this before. He’s gotten good at it by now.

Jason makes it three blocks away before the bloodlessness knocks his feet out from under him. He can _see_ his goddamn window from here, peeking out from behind the huge brick monstrosity across the lane from his apartment. He goes down to the concrete with a curse and skins one of his palms where his glove rides up on the descent.

Feeling around for the wound again - and _yep_ , that’s blood, on the outside of his suit now - Jason sits back on his heels and groans. But fuck, he was so close.

Jason stares across the next three rooftops, plotting each leapt ascent in millimetres marked out on the increasingly open wound and maps out exactly how much of that he can achieve while conscious. He’s estimating he’s lost about one-and-a-half pints of blood down his suit leg, and may be nudging two. Can feel it sticky and warm against his calf. He hasn’t got much left in him, so maybe reconsidering calling for help is the best option.

There’s a decent chance they’re all tucked up in bed by now. But he knows Nightwing’s got a twenty minute run across town before he comes up on his neighbourhood, so there’s a chance his comms are still open. 

“This is Red,” he says into his comm, and tries to keep the wince out of his voice as he starts back towards his apartment. “Anyone still up?”

“Nightwing,” he introduces immediately, because he’s not one to mince words with lengthy introductions. He’s exactly as Jason needs him to be, alert and attentive and ready for instructions. “What’s the situation, J?” 

Jason takes the gap at a solid sprint, angles his feet to take up the momentum in a swift, shoulder-leading roll. When he comes back up, his words are strained, “I got tagged.”

He imagines him staggering to a halt. “Say again,” he orders evenly, his tone carefully constructed.

Jason almost laughs at his shock. He never asks for help, wouldn’t even consider admitting that he needs assistance to his siblings unless its serious. And serious blood loss qualifies as serious. It’s low rung, in their line of work, but when Jason scales a vent and drops down to the other side, he feels the impact up through his entire torso and considers that he may not even make it long enough to finish his sentence. He’s one more rooftop off that beautiful beacon of a window.

“Point blank. Tagged me good and clean,” Jason gasps, breathing harsh as he pounds over the concrete. He doesn’t want to pass out mid-jump, so he’s got to at least clear this building before he can kark it. He weighs a solid hundred-and-ninety pounds wet, so Nightwing’s going to have a fun time lugging his unconscious body across the distance. Every foot closer is a favour.

“Where are you?” he asks, and Jason can hear wind moving past him as he points himself south. “Your tracker’s off. Light up for me.”

Ah, right. He always leaves his tracker off when he’s finished working. It’s intentional. His siblings are costumed detectives for a side hobby. He doesn’t need to give them any legs up when it comes to working out where he calls home. He doesn’t want any of them crowding his abode anyway. Gotham is big, but six vigilantes operating in the same seventy mile radius means they’re basically on top of each other.

And he likes this apartment. Likes the privacy.

Nightwing’s in his ear again, and Jason doesn’t realise he’s blacking out until he slams up against a folding chair someone’s left out to do some late-night stargazing. “Light up,” he barks, sounding irritated now, as Jason disengages from the metal legs and pulls himself back up to his feet.

“What, you can only use your detective skills when the full moon’s out?” he teases, and swings his legs over the low wall to drop down to the first fire escape landing. His knees go out, and he tumbles back into the railing with a slice of pain up his skull and a spat curse.

Nightwing must hear it, because he growls. “You’re not going to be conscious much longer, J. Turn your tracker on.”

But he’s blinking down at his apartment lane through the grated iron he’s sitting on, and his bathroom window is right there, bright and inviting across the three metres gap. Jason smiles fondly.

“Don’t worry, I’ve made it home, D. Beat you there.” Jason wraps a hand around a railing post and hauls himself upright again.

Nightwing’s not having it. “I’m still coming to check on you. Make sure you’re still in one piece. Light up for me.”

Jason ignores him. He’s swung over the railing, the heels of his boots hooked against the landing as he crouches and aims. He splays out, guiding his descent down the two floors and across the width of the lane, stretching up to hook on the window sill of the apartment above his. It’s goddamn murder on his shoulder, but it’s the agony that burns up his side that has Jason gasping for air.

He lets go, dropping the seven feet to the next ledge, and seizes the mullion for balance. Then he rests his forehead against the cool glass and grins. _Made it_.

“Red?” Nightwing says harshly, bleating in his ear. “Red, are you there?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, and manoeuvres aside to slide the window open. He never locks it; too convenient to pass up. “I’m fine. Made it home.”

“You said that,” he bites back. He’s still running, Jason can hear the rustle of his suit, the sound a faint ambience behind his words. “Still coming to check on you. I’m heading up twenty-third now. Where are you? Still can’t see your beacon.”

“You’re not going to. I’m fine,” he insists as he shimmies through the tight gap and crouches on the closed toilet lid below. The bathroom’s lit, so he has no trouble staggering over the cheap Ikea rug and bracing over the sink. “Have a good night, D.”

“Don’t you go offline,” he growls. “You’re injured. Don’t be stupid. Light up, Jay.”

“Sleep tight,” he purrs, and kills his comm, tossing it into the bedroom behind him. He doesn’t hear it land, but he aimed for his bedcovers, so it should be in decent proximity when he needs it tomorrow morning.

Jason sinks down to his knees and pries open the cabinet doors, fumbling around for the first aid kit. It’s sitting on the left hand shelf, and Jason frowns, dragging it down to the tile. He could have sworn he left it on the right, but then again, he uses this thing more often than his coffee machine, so it wanders pretty frequently.

He kicks his legs out and leans back against the cabinetry, peeling up his suit jacket to expose the wound to the light.

It’s a nasty, vicious thing, all red and swollen. His skin is already going dark around the impact point, and his abdomen is flaked in drying blood. Some of the more liquid component oozes out of the wound and paints his fingernails crimson when he prods at it.

“Alright, you fucker,” he mutters to himself, immeasurably pleased that he made it home before passing out because man, that’s going to be something to puff and preen over at the next big meet up. He threads a line, dunks the tip in antiseptic, and presses the sewing needle against his puckered flesh. “Let’s get you patched up so I can sleep.”

He does the hole in his back first, because if he tries to twist around with stitches in his belly, he’s going to have to redo them anyway. He makes a fucking mess of it too, but it only takes a few minutes and its sealed, and Jason heaves a sigh of relief. He pops two aspirin to reward his great work, and rethreads a new wire, shifting a little to line up.

Nausea sneaks up on him like a mugger with a crowbar, and Jason dives swiftly for the tile, catching himself at the last moment. He straightens slowly, woozy and blinking. “What the-”

He doesn't finish the sentence. He manages to sit up enough that when he lolls over again, he’s braced against the toilet lid, and then the darkness rushes up under him and lays him out cold.


	2. Red Rover, Red Rover, I Call Over...

Tim’s going to med school. He’s said as much to his neighbours and his superintendent and his supervisor. Doesn’t stop the asshole from scheduling him on the dreaded seven-to-three night shift.

It blocks out all his regular study time, and means that he’s going to have to watch the eight a.m. lecture he’s going to miss on capture when he sits down with a bowl of cereal at ten o’clock.

Whatever. At least he’s on a quiet ward tonight. It’s probably one of the quietest nights Tim’s had since he took up this nursing gig. He almost manages to squeeze in a full fifteen pages of textbook skimming before some octogenarian with a limp hits the buzzer in his room and he waves off Steph with an equable, “I’ll get it.”

He’s even got enough energy left in him for a brief late-night-early-morning shower before he hits the hay. Is even looking forward to the fifteen minutes of decent heat and water pressure he should be able to get through his piping at this hour when he tosses his keys into the bowl beside his apartment door and pads across the living room to the sole bedroom.

He shucks his scrubs on the way over to the ensuite, yawning broadly in the yellowed light. He leaves it on most nights, because it’s way easier to fumble off clothes in a partially lit bedroom than in pitch darkness. And it’s easier to convince himself to brush his teeth before passing out when he has to get up to switch the light off anyway.

Tim’s down to his boxer briefs by the time his bare feet touch cold tile, and then he’s really, truly awake, because there’s _someone_ in his bathroom.

The man’s slumped back against the cabinets, half-curled over the toilet seat, and dead to the world. He’s breathing, is the first thing Tim notes with a sigh of relief, but half of him is coated in a shade of red that Tim’s all too familiar with. And god, it’s all _over_ him.

Tim locates the source immediately, his gaze honing in on the rupture of flesh on his left side, two thirds down from his ribcage. It’s a solid tear too, looks like it’s an exasperated bullet wound that’s weathered some extensive damage. This guy must have been working out with the wound to fuck it up this badly.

Maybe he’s not far off, Tim realises as he takes a step forward and actually looks at the scene before him. Because the man’s dressed in something that looks suspiciously like a motorcycle jacket, only sleeker and with a slice of accented ruby up the sides. Tim’s lived in Gotham for six years, so he knows exactly what that is.

There’s a vigilante passed out on his bathroom floor.

One glance at the open ensuite window tells him exactly how the guy got in, but not what he’s doing in Tim’s apartment. But he seems to be alone and he’s genuinely unconscious, so Tim slips into nurse-mode and does what he does best.

There’s an efficiently stitched wound on his back, so Tim lays him down and finishes the job on his front, peeling down his pants a few inches afterwards to clean up some of the blood. It goes way farther down than Tim’s willing to go, even for a medical professional, because this guy’s out cold and waking up without pants on in a stranger’s bathroom is bound to result in a punching first and questions later scenario.

Plus, the next part’s really going to look bad when the vigilante finally comes around to it.

The cuffs ratchet closed with the snick of high-quality steel, and Tim checks their sturdiness once against the porcelain at the back of the toilet bowl. They’re not budging anytime soon, Tim knows from experience. He’s been shackled to his own bed posts on enough interesting nights with his ex to know that they’re reliable. It’s amazing what thirty-five dollars at a sketchy downtown sex shop will get you these days, Tim muses as he sits back on his heels and inspects the vigilante.

Now that he’s neutralised, somewhat, Tim is less concerned with having his nose broken if he takes a closer look. If he’s asked, he’ll put it down to standard obs procedure. Gotta check if the guy’s airways are unobstructed and all that.

It’s bullshit. If he was going to do an obs check, he would have done it before he stitched the man up and cuffed him to the floor. Tim’s just curious, really, even though he won’t admit it at gunpoint.

The mask comes off surprisingly easy. It covers his face in stiff, red kevlar, leaving the underside of his jawline free. Tim leverages it off and sets it atop the toilet seat, then sits back to appreciate that _face_.

Because you can’t tell how old someone is by the lines of their stomach, and that was the only skin Tim had had the privilege of seeing up until now. But this guy can’t be much older than him, because that is the face of someone climbing for twenty-five and Tim didn’t know vigilantes could be that young or that damn hot.

He catches himself blushing in the shower glass’ reflection, and glares, pushing to his feet. He’s not staring, he isn’t. He’s… inspecting. Like a medical professional would. For injuries. And such.

Tim still feels uneasy about it, so he takes a step back through the doorway. He glances down at the unconscious man, at the slack droop of his long lashes over high cheekbones and the tousle of ash-black hair that’s plastered to his forehead. Then he tugs the door closed and leans back against it.

There’s an unconscious vigilante trussed up in his ensuite bathroom.

Tim feels like his veins are on fire, he’s so nervous. What the fuck is he doing in Tim’s bathroom? Why is he here, of all places? Was it an honest mistake? Did he think he could sneak in and out without disrupting the peace and just happened to pass out before he could get himself patched up? Based on that wound, he must have known he’d lost too much blood. This couldn’t have been just a passing-through. He was laid up like he was going to sew up his wounds and curl up on the rug to sleep through the next eleven hours. This was an end-of-the-line stop.

Maybe he lives nearby. The thought is a dangerous, curious one, and Tim bites down on it before his imagination can run off with it. Maybe he lives in a nearby apartment building and mistook Tim’s bathroom window for his own. Maybe this is all a huge misunderstanding.

But now he has a disoriented, unconscious vigilante cuffed to his toilet, and what is he supposed to _do_ about that?

Because Tim’s flicked through enough late-night news broadcasts while trying to drone himself into an early bedtime to know that you’re supposed to ring this sort of thing into the authorities. Vigilantes are just dressed up criminals, they all say, and they’re still bound by the same laws that crime lords and gangsters are.

They’re just smarter about it, Tim thinks, and probably a fair serving nobler.

He’s typed 911 into his on-screen dial pad before Tim pauses. It just feels… wrong, somehow? Like he’s jumping the gun, like he should be giving this guy a chance to explain himself. Maybe he’s not really a costumed vigilante. Maybe he’s a Halloweener who happened to get himself shot up. Yeah, a Halloweener in May.

Tim drags a hand down his face and flicks his mobile onto his bedcovers. Whatever the reason, he’s not going to get it if the cops drag this guy out of his apartment unconscious. And damn it, Tim’s _curious_.

And tired. Too fucking tired to be internally debating this shit.

He drags on the first pair of boxers he finds and sprawls out on his queen mattress, burying his head in his pillow. Questions for a more lucid and coffee-fuelled Tim to have answered. He’s asleep before his clock’s readout flicks over to four.


	3. Who's Got The Button?

Jason wakes with a headache wider than a continent and the distinct recognition that he’s pinned on his back. And boy, that's a fun thing to negotiate with his lungs this early in the morning.

He's cold too, down his cheek and neck, and he realises this is because he's pressed up against a porcelain toilet bowl when he opens his eyes.

He's alone, is the first positive news he has immediately available to him. His wound has been stitched, is the second, and man, that's a much better stitch than his rush job. He takes a moment to appreciate the handiwork before he tries to sit up and nearly rips it open.

Jason slumps back to the tile with a sigh. The bullet entered just shy of his hip bone, straight through his oblique. So that's going to make core workouts fun for the next few months while the muscle repairs itself. He's not going to let himself be benched, so he'll just have to suck it up.

But right now his core muscles are out of commission, especially if he wants to keep his spleen inside him and avoid a reapplication of stitches. Jason frowns up at the cabinetry and tries to remember exactly when he passed out.

Must’ve been in the early hours of the morning, maybe three-ish. Based on how the sun's clamouring through his open window, he'd guess he's been out of it for at least eight hours, which should plant him firmly in the late morning-midday range.

Doesn't enlighten him on why he's handcuffed to a toilet in his own goddamn bathroom. He'd considered and immediately discarded whether this was a prank from one of his dear siblings; it's just not their style. And most of them aren't the pranking type. Most of them aren't asshole enough to cuff a guy with a bullet hole punched through him in his own home. _Most_ of them.

And so the internal interrogation swings around to _who the fuck_ managed to get into his apartment. It's decently alarmed, because well, nosy vigilante siblings. The security isn't as high as some of his more affluent kin’s, but that's by design; high tech locks that cost more than the one-bedroom apartment they're installed on tend to have the opposite effect when you're in this sort of neighbourhood. Because expensive security means important loot. It's practically a beacon.

But getting past his alarms is a bitch and a half, he'd personally made sure of it. And he hasn't gotten anything in the way of alerts, not even a belated “you were unconscious so they will have cleared the place out by now, hope you weren't attached to that flatscreen”. Which means this fucker is _good_.

Or maybe he's a fucking moron.

Not the phantom intruder, who he still has the pleasure of meeting yet, but Jason. Because now that he's got daylight on his side and enough blood in him that he can actually focus on the details, he can tell that this _isn't his bathroom_.

The realisation knocks some of the air out of him, to be replaced by slowly rising dread as he casts around at the toothbrush on the stand and the body wash in the shower and the towel folded neatly over the rack and yeah, this definitely isn't his bathroom.

It looks the same, some credit to his half-unconscious self, so he can see how he made the error. He wouldn't have shacked up in a random bathroom if he hadn't been solidly convinced that this was his, but moderate blood loss has a funny way of smoothing over the details.

So it's not his apartment. Which explains the handcuffs a little more now. To be fair, he'd have approximately the same response to someone dropping in uninvited, and that's including anyone who came through the front door, let alone shimmied through his bathroom window.

Whose apartment is it? A neighbour's? He's pretty sure he picked the right apartment block, and the deco is a solid giveaway, so he can't be off by more than a hair either way. Maybe one too far to the left or right? It had certainly _looked_ like his bathroom window climbing down, but they all look the same so that's not saying much. And who keeps their bathroom light on at three a.m. anyway?

Someone with decent stitching skills, apparently. And a first aid kit in their cabinets.

He's narrowed his options down to disgraced heavyweight world champion who's seen one too many nights in a back alley ring or renowned Austrian surgeon who fled to the States in the eighties to live out his dream of working from the ground up and never managed to actually crawl out of the slums, when the bathroom door swings open.

The man who materialises in the doorway is much younger than Jason expects. He starts a little when he realises Jason’s awake, his coffee sloshing in its mug, and blinks down at him. “You’re awake,” he says. When Jason doesn’t answer, he adds dumbly, “You look surprised.”

Jason realises with a slice of panic that he’s not wearing his mask. He casts around for it frantically. “Motherfu-”

The man points to the toilet lid, and Jason cranes back to see his mask perched perfectly on it. He turns back to the man with a glare.

“That’s fucking rude.”

“You broke into my apartment first,” the man throws back with a slight shrug, and leans one shoulder against the frame. He’s just far enough to be out of kicking range, Jason realises, and it’s probably by design. He’d take out a kneecap right now if he thought he could land it. “Want to tell me what you’re doing in my bathroom?”

“Breaking out of a pair of dodgy-ass handcuffs, you?”

“No, you’re not,” the man replies calmly, and Jason stills with a frown. “Those are slot lock handcuffs. You’re going to need the key.”

“What, regular double locks not kinky enough for you?” Jason shoots back, and doesn’t miss the way the man flushes underneath his pallor. He notes that little reaction and files it away for later use. Jason tilts his wrists down and reads the imprint on the metal. “ _The Rabbit Hole: indulge your curiosity_. You like being tied up, handsome?”

Fuck, he’s quick to recover from that one. Don’t hit the same nerve twice then; Jason’s got a fast learner on his hands. “You don’t seem to be trying all that hard to get out of them.”

Jason offers him a smile that’s all teeth. “I’ve got a bullet hole in my stomach, sweetie. Impedes the motor reflexes a little bit.”

“You still haven’t thanked me for stitching that up yet.” The man takes a slow sip of coffee, waiting.

Jason stares at him, because who wakes up to find a vigilante in their bathroom, holds them captive and has the balls to get offended over their handiwork going unappreciated? He’s almost impressed enough to laugh.

Instead, he says, “Where’s my coffee?”

“Where’s my thank you?”

And his smile this time is more genuine amusement, because yeah, this guy’s kind of cute, in a fucking annoying kind of way. He can play along with coy. “What do I get if I say thank you?”

“You get a coffee while we wait for the GCPD to arrive.”

The smile slips off his face swiftly. “Oh sweetie, you haven’t called the cops, have you?”

The man takes another gulp of coffee, but it’s tinged with nervousness this time. “Might have,” he answers casually. So that’s a soft no.

“I thought we’d have more time to play,” Jason responds, letting his tone hitch into something pouty, something simpering. “You trussed me up and everything, darling. I’m feeling led on.”

The man stares at him, his ears turning pink. His voice is surprisingly level when he says, “You’re weird.”

Jason barks a laugh, because ain’t that the damn truth. He tightens his hands into fists and cocks his head. “You like weird, handsome?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You haven’t given me a name.”

“You first.”

Jason tuts. “Don’t think so, sweetheart. You’ve already seen my face. That’s a bit too close for my comfort.”

“You looked familiar,” the man mumbles around another sip, and Jason honestly can’t tell if that’s a bluff or not.

“Mind telling me which apartment this is?”

“Why, you live nearby?”

Closer than you know, Jason thinks, but says nothing.

The man takes the silence in stride. “It’s four-oh-nine.”

Missed it by one floor. Motherfucker. Jason offers him a broad smile. “So _you’re_ the one having loud, kinky sex. My, my, you’re a busy one, aren’t you?”

“Ha ha,” he responds drily, and Jason can see that oh, that’s a sore spot too. Cute _and_ lonely.

“So what are we doing about this, four-oh-nine?” Jason asks, lifting the cuffs as much as the chain will allow. Which is not much. “You going to call the cops or keep me here until I starve?”

“You need to get clean,” the man points out, nodding at his midsection. “Last thing you want is an infection with all that blood.”

“No problem, I’ll take the shower. Key?”

The man smirks. “Are you usually this subtle, or am I just special?”

“Well, I’m not going to reach the shower from here, cupcake. And as fun as you stripping me with your eyes is, it’s not going to get me undressed as effectively as using my hands. If you don’t want me to die of blood poisoning, you might want to lose the cuffs.”

“The cuffs are staying. I haven’t decided if I’m turning you in or not yet. So shower’s off the table for now.”

“Haven’t decided, huh? What’s the hold up?”

The man looks uncertain. “Wanted to give you a chance to tell your side, I guess.”

“What’s to tell?” Jason asks, shuffling a bit to stay comfortable. The tile is cold on the bare parts of his back. “I beat bad guys up in my spare time. I’m morally questionable. I’m going back on patrol as soon as I work out where you’ve stashed that key. Turning me in is the only shot you’re going to get at stopping me, handsome.”

“What’s your name?” he asks, and Jason’s opening his mouth to remind him that they’ve been over this, when he clarifies, “Your vigilante name, I mean?”

Jason pauses. He and his siblings get confused with each other all the time. That’s sort of the point of the costumes really, the illusion of duplicates. It never gets old seeing bad guys baulk when a double pries themself out of the shadows behind Jason’s right shoulder.

And they all wear basically the same outfit anyway. There’s minute differences. Colour, for one. They all wear a chromatic hodgepodge of colours, which seem to go unnoticed unless they’re standing in a row. The Bat’s the darkest, and the Original sort of gets bragging rights. Aside from his blue accents, Nightwing’s suit’s the closest to the Bat’s shadowy black. He’s been wondering absently what they’re going to do about D’s outfit when he finally steps up to the Bat (pun intended) and joins the ranks of the disgraced ‘made their own men’ siblings. He’s nearly fourteen. Give it a few years and he’ll be kicking it with the best of them.

Can’t exactly get darker than Batman’s black though. Last he checked Semple hadn’t figured that one out yet. They’ve also all got tells, aside from height and cup size. Different fighting styles. Jason sits on the more devastating end of the scale, just below Orphan and on-par with Nightwing. Between the three of them, they’ve more than filled Gotham General’s emergency ward with warm bodies.

“Red,” he answers quietly, searching for the other man’s reaction. He doesn’t give anything away.

“How many of you are there anyway?”

“You’re asking me to give away trade secrets, sweetheart. Can’t be doing that.”

The man grunts in acknowledgement. “I’ve seen your handiwork. You’re thorough.”

Jason smiles. “What can I say? I’m grace in motion.”

“Let me rephrase that: I’ve _treated_ your handiwork.”

“Ah, you’re a doctor.”

“Nurse,” he corrects, meeting Jason’s gaze easily. “But same difference when it comes to rolling bad guys through General’s doors, right? They’re not your problem once they’re laid out. I get to do the clean up.”

“You and the cops,” Jason agrees. “I keep you in a job, sweetheart.”

“I think people would still be getting cancer without your vigilantism.”

Jason gasps mockingly. “And the cure was right there, all along! We just didn’t see it til now-”

“My point being,” the man says loudly, and Jason lapses into amused silence. “I’m not convinced that you don’t deserve to be detained for all the damage you’ve caused. The press would have a field day watching your ass in the defendant’s chair.”

“My eyes are up here, handsome,” Jason purrs. “And they couldn’t get anything to stick even if they caught me with my pants down. That’s the point of the mask. No way to tell who’s doing what crimes.”

“That’s why the gangs have taken to wearing them too, huh? Are we’re just supposed to let it escalate from here?”

“Doing my best, sweetheart. Bit hard to squash down the mafia when I’m chained to a bathroom floor though.”

“I’m sure us pitiful civilians will cope for one night.”

“Am I only going to get a one night stand out of you, handsome? Or are you going to keep me here longer? Cause I’ve just remembered I left the stove on, and-”

“We’ll see,” the man says cryptically, and reaches for the door handle.

“Hang on,” Jason starts, panic lacing up his chest. He tries to strain upright, and fails. “Wait, you can’t just leave me here.”

He pauses with the door half ajar, blinking down at the unmasked vigilante. “I’ve got to study. And then I’ve got a night shift. I can’t babysit you for the whole day.”

“You can’t _leave me here_ ,” Jason says irritably, his brow creasing in a scowl. “What am I going to eat? How am I going to drink? What am I supposed to even _do_ for that long?”

“Think about what you’ve done,” the man replies with a smirk. “There’s water in the sink-”

“That I can’t reach.”

“-and I’ll bring you some food before I head out.”

“That I won’t be able to eat without hands. Really, sweetheart, you looked smarter than this.”

“Thanks. I’m working on that bit. Leave it with me for a few hours and I’ll see what I can work out to improve the eating and showering situation. I’ll think of something. Until then, sit tight.”

“I’m not just going to wait here for you to call the cops,” Jason snaps, upstarting.

“You don’t get much of a choice.”

“I’ll scream.”

The man looks amused beneath his exasperation. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“Please, miss, you have to help me,” Jason begs, beetling his brow to lay the act on thick, “this- this man, he knocked me unconscious and I woke up here. And he _chained_ me in his bathroom, and he tried to-”

“You’re in full costume,” the man points out.

“-and he’s got this weird _kink_ for roleplaying vigilantes,” Jason sneers, a bite to his words now. The man flushes darkly. “But he said he’d _hurt_ me if I didn’t do as he said and then-”

“Do you even know anyone on this floor?” the man interrupts, and Jason pauses, blinks once.

“There’s an old man-”

“Old lady,” he corrects.

Jason scowls. “And a young couple-”

“Single mother,” he cuts in. “Strike two.”

The glare darkens. “And this real _asshole_ in four-oh-nine-”

“Yeah, and this _asshole_ has been spotted several times bringing ladies home,” the man says, a steely quality to his tone that reminds Jason of Bruce. “So you can play up the whole gay kidnapping fantasy as much as you want. It’s not going to fly.”

“Not into guys, handsome?” Jason sneers, his brain already picking over a new strategy. “Ever heard of sexually repressed? Overcompensating? Beards?”

“If I didn’t know better, and I don’t, I’d say you’re deflecting, _Red_.”

Jason’s lips settle into a thin line. “Didn’t answer my question, four-oh-nine.”

The man hesitates a second, warring with himself before he says quietly, stilted, “I didn’t say I wasn't. I said I’d brought women home.”

“God, you swing harder than a sex fiend’s hammock, don’t you?”

The door slams shut with harsh, vibrant fury, and Jason laughs into the echo. This guy’s got enough buttons to keep Jason busy for a long, _long_ time, and his reactions are so beautifully varied. If he’s not going to have anything else to keep him entertained, at least this will be a treat.

He lets the laughter peter off, and sighs into the quiet, slumping back to the tiles. The man’s not lying - busting the cuffs are out of the picture. He’s more likely to dislocate his wrist than anything else, and if this guy’s to be believed and he _is_ a nurse, he’s certain he’ll just slot Jason’s bones back into their sockets and be on his merry way. Asshole.

So Jason settles in for the long haul and traces the cracks making their way across the bathroom ceiling with his gaze. Tries to think back and remember if there was ever a time when the guy upstairs had left a lasting impression on him. A loud party in the early hours of the morning? Not that Jason would be around to hear it - he usually gets in just before the sunrise most mornings. A stupid hobby or instrument that had grated on his nerves? Like Jason wouldn’t be too busy working through a case to focus on anything other than his laptop screen.

Jason wonders if they ever passed each other on the stairs or in the lobby. Wonders what the man looks like with his hair plastered to his face with rainwater, desperately and gratefully dashing through the foyer door Jason’s holding open. Whether he smiles fondly at the sun when he jogs for the bus stop in the morning or is barely conscious enough to make it down the front steps.

He’s a really bad neighbour, Jason realises, and huffs. Maybe he should invest some time in cosying up to the ones on his floor. Never know when he might need a place to crash unexpectedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going on a short holiday hiatus, but I've got most of a chapter in the bank. Hopefully I'll be able to post it when I return. Sit tight and get comfy!


	4. Duck, Duck, Goose

Tim’s out of the apartment for two hours. He figures the restrained vigilante can’t do too much damage in that time.

He had raised some good points though, namely that handcuffs weren’t completely suited to manoeuvrability. He’s going to need a run of some variety if Tim’s going to be able to leave him be for extended lengths of time, and he just so happens to have a shift tonight. So Tim steps out for two hours, because that’s how long it takes him to get to the pet store and back.

Maybe it’s not the most orthodox choice. But it _had_ been infinitely amusing to nod receptively at the register attendant who had taken him over to the leash section to advise him on the suitability of a chain for his ‘unruly mastiff’. The fifteen minute conversation brings Tim’s spirits all the way back up, and he’s convinced enough to throw in a large silver dog bowl on his meagre budget. He figures it could come in handy, even if as a deterrent, and it does the trick of settling any concerns the attendant may have about his uses for the chain.

The bus takes just over twenty minutes, and drops Tim five blocks from his apartment building. He hitches his backpack up higher on his shoulder and puts in his headphones as he traipses up the steps to the corner store. He’s been coming here for nearly the whole six years he’s been living in Gotham, so he knows the Pakistani couple who own the store by name. They sometimes give him food that’s a few days after their best befores for free.

He stuffs the milk, eggs, tins and bread into his backpack and bids Hamid a good afternoon before he starts home. Tim’s mapped out most of the shortcuts, and he makes the trek on autopilot, flicking through the lecture slides he’s downloaded for his Metabolism course as he weaves through the alleyways. He doesn’t notice the two men who peel themselves off the brickwork until he literally runs straight up against one.

It nearly knocks him off his feet, and Tim’s already apologising when he looks up and notes the malicious grin. His heart sinks down into his stomach and begins to churn. The guy’s not many years older than Tim, but he’s got an extra foot and thirty pounds on him, and Tim’s not stupid enough to launch into a fight when he’s outnumbered.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he starts with, taking a hesitant step back, and glances over his shoulder at the man who’s blocking the other exit to the alley.

“Neither do we,” the first guy says, and holds out a palm. Tim stares at it. “Wallet, now.”

Tim swallows and nods. He knows this schtick. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been pickpocketed or mugged before. Gotham’s a breeding ground for opportunists, both corporate and small-time crook varieties. Tim’s rent isn’t cheap because it’s a four-hundred square foot apartment.

He’s maybe two buildings over from his building, and this alley’s a cut-through to his suburb that takes him off the main roads and the heavy foot traffic. Tim doesn’t doubt that if anyone looked into the alley anyway, as long as they’ve got Gotham blood in them, they’ll be smart enough to keep walking.

Tim shrugs his backpack off his shoulder and starts rifling past his groceries for his wallet. The guy shuffles to his other foot, impatient when Tim can’t immediately locate it. He glares, gripping a handful of the backpack and nearly wrenching Tim off his feet when he drags him forward.

“Hey!” Tim yelps as the bag tears wide, scattering its contents. He fumbles to catch the carton of eggs and misses them, hands brushing past the mugger’s thigh.

A large fist closes around his wrist with bruising pressure, and Tim gasps in pain as he’s yanked upright. When he looks up, there’s a knife in his face.

“You trying something smart, pal?”

Tim’s pulse rings up in his ears at the sight of the switchblade, the blood draining from his face as he instinctively pulls back and is held firm. “No,” he stammers out, and drags his gaze up to meet the man’s eyes. “Please, I didn’t mean to-”

“Wallet,” the man repeats in a curt bark, and Tim nods frantically, dig with fervour. He’s barely pulled the black article free before the mugger snatches it up, rifling through it. Tim swallows and watches him, twisting his wrist just slightly in the man’s grip. Tries to work out if he can run for it. Then he catches sight of his ID as the man starts yanking ites out, searching for credit cards.

Tim makes an aborted attempt at reaching for the wallet, purely on reflex and the switchblade jerks up again. He stammers on his inhale and freezes up. “I just-” he tries, and swallows to steady his voice. “I just need my student ID. I need it for the bus. You don’t need it. You can keep the cash. I just want the ID, please.”

“Where’re your cards?” the man demands.

“What cards?” Tim whispers, frowning.

The hand holding his wrist shakes him hard, and Tim grunts in pain, staggering a few steps. “Credit cards, genius. Where are they?”

“I don’t have any,” Tim gasps, glaring. The fury in the man’s eyes chills his own, and he closes his mouth with a snap, trying to level his tone out before he provokes the guy holding the knife. “I only carry cash.”

The guy’s lips twist in disapproval, but he pockets the cash and discards the wallet, flicking it against the brick wall with careless disdain. Tim watches its arc until the man’s words snap his head back around. “Give us the phone.”

“What?” Tim blurts, and grips his phone a little tighter. “It’s got my study notes on it. I need…”

He can see from the man’s expression and the glint of the knife that he’s not going to be able to appeal to the man’s overwhelming empathy. Tim sets his jaw, squeezing the device just a little tighter before he offers it up.

The accomplice snatches it out of his palm, startling Tim as he comes into view. He inspects the deep crack in the screen that Tim’s been saving to have replaced, and hits the home button. Steph’s contorted face fills his screen, beaming up at him through a broad grin.

“Can we sell it?” the first mugger demands, and the accomplice shrugs.

“It’s cracked, but we’ll get a decent amount for it.”

“Good,” the first says, and shoves Tim away. He staggers back and presses himself against the brick, hugging his backpack protectively. The mugger smiles as the accomplice pockets the device, and waves the knife in Tim’s direction. “See you around, pretty boy.”

Tim breathes deep and steady until the alleyway is empty and their footsteps’ echoes are long since dead. Then he slides down the brick onto unsteady knees and fumbles for the eggs, thumbing open the carton. Four of the dozen are still intact, and Tim’s too shaken up to summon the energy to go back and buy more, so he packs the dented carton in his bag and shoulders it.

Then he retrieves his pilfered wallet and heads home. He locks the door behind himself, because one robbery today is enough for him, and shelves the milk in the fridge. He dumps the bowl on the counter, the joke feeling distant and cheap after that encounter. His hands are shaky when he retrieves the loop of silver chain and the padlocks he’d picked up at the corner store. He snatches the key to the cuffs up off his bedroom floor, letting the metal bite into his palm for a few moments in an attempt to alleviate his shaking. Then he tucks it away and starts towards his captive guest.  

Tim’s still trembling when he shoves open the bathroom door, stills on the tile. The vigilante arches up to glance at him, smiling slyly.

“Back so soon?” he quips, and Tim ignores him, holding his ground.

“I don’t have the key,” he says poignantly.

“Okay,” Red says evenly.

Tim doesn’t move yet. “So grappling me isn’t going to get you anywhere. You need me in one piece to let you out of those cuffs.”

“I understand,” he says, and Tim nods, striding across the small ensuite. His gaze flickers to the chain in Tim’s fist, curious, but he’s distracted by Tim dropping to his knees to straddle his torso. “Woah, woah, hey. Buy me dinner first, sweetheart.”

“Don’t move,” Tim orders as he slides the chain through the radiator loop twice, then secures the combination lock through four of the links, just to be safe. The vigilante watches this with silent rapture, assessing. Searching for a slip-up, no doubt.

“That’s some high quality steel, handsome,” he murmurs appreciatively, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. “You know how to spoil a girl.”

It rubs him up all the wrong way after the mugger’s comment, grating on his frayed nerves. “Shut up.”

The vigilante’s gaze rises to fix on his as Tim studiously focuses on the cuffs, cinching the tail tight through the little half-link set into the metal body. He closes the padlock with a sharp snap and sits back to test its give. It seems pretty sturdy. Makes a racket grinding against the radiator though. Tim pushes to his feet to yank a towel down from the rack and thread it between the metal pipes of the radiator and the loop of chain.

“Hey,” Red says gently, and Tim glances down at him, finally. His features have softened somewhat, confusion laced into his brow. “Are you okay?”

It catches him off-guard, and Tim swallows, testing the chain again. “I got mugged,” he says sharply.

The vigilante’s face is artfully blank, but Tim thinks he sees a hint of sympathy in the lighter flecks of his eyes. “Just now?”

“Just outside the building,” Tim confirms stiffly.

“You get hurt?”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m sort of in the business of caring,” Red quips, gesturing crookedly to his suit and the symbol emblazoned on the front. “Did they hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine. They- they just took my phone. And my cash.” He shrugs, but it’s a harsh, jerking motion.

“I take one day off and the neighbourhood goes to shit,” he mutters, but Tim’s laugh lodges in his throat and dies there. They lapse into a heavy pregnant silence, and Tim stills, his chest tight. The vigilante’s gaze flicks up to the cuffs and back to his eyes. “How’re you going to get around this one, sweetheart?”

“Shut up,” Tim reminds him, but Red smiles.

“I’m not going to bullshit you. You open that cuff and I’m knocking you down before you finish taking a breath.”

He’d arrived at the same conclusion while he’d been closing the smaller padlock. He’s got to somehow unlock one of the cuffs, force the vigilante’s wrist around the _other_ side of the toilet bowl and then hold him still enough to get it back on. Tim’s not a lightweight, by any stretch of the imagination, but his hand-eye reflexes are shit. He’s got next to zero chance of successfully pulling this off and keeping all his teeth in their gums.

“Then I’m going to have to be more persuasive,” Tim grunts, and leverages back up off Red’s torso. The vigilante watches him with interest, yelping in surprise more than protest when Tim wraps a hand around his bicep and twists him onto his stomach.

“Holy _shit_ , sweetheart,” he grunts in return, his elbow lodged painfully hard against the porcelain. “You want me to lose feeling in my wrists?”

“I’m only going to say this once,” Tim says, and drops his weight onto the man’s lower back. He hears the air go out of him in a wheezing rush, and then thinks better. Thinks _smarter_ , and shuffles over until he’s got his left knee pressed firmly flush against the vigilante’s poorly stitched entry wound. He swears he hears the man whine. “Don’t move, or you’re going to need a transfusion.”

The man doesn’t say anything in response, but Tim thinks he gets the message, because he holds perfectly still while Tim digs into the back pocket of his jeans and leverages out the key.

“Thought you said you didn’t have the key on you,” Red wheezes, and Tim feels his lips twitch in a smile.

“I’m a good liar,” he lies, and slides the key into the cuffs.

There’s a brief struggle where the vigilante tries to wrap his free wrist around Tim’s forearm (his other, the one still cuffed, is pinned firmly to the tile, Tim’s nails biting) and leverage his elbow back into Tim’s face. He shuts that down with a sharp and harsher-than-necessary kneel onto the man’s fresh wound, and he withers with a sharp groan.

Tim doesn’t waste any more time than he needs to drag his arm around the other side of the bowl and slide the cuff closed around his shaking wrist.

“Motherfucker, that wound is a bitch and a half,” he mutters once Tim’s pulling off him. He tests the secureness of the cuffs, before jerking back to his knees in a swift motion that must be murder on his injured oblique. He sits back on his heels and takes up the slack of the chain while Tim pockets the key and moves well out of range, back to the safety of the bedroom floorboards.

Red takes approximately the same amount of time that it took Tim to calculate the length of the chain available. He’s got free roam of the bathroom now, including the toilet, sink and shower. And increased mobility of his hands for eating. “What if I want to hang myself out the window?” he asks aloud, rolling his wrists as much as the cuffs will allow.

“Go for it,” Tim replies nonchalantly. “I’ll haul you back in when you’re done being a dumbass. You pull your stitches and you’re not getting another set, though.”

The man hums in response to that. “Fair enough. Do I get lunch now, handsome?”

Tim shakes his head, watches confusion spike through his gaze before clearing when Tim says, “Shower.”

He looks unbelievably relieved, his shoulders sliding down into a grateful, relaxed line as Tim makes a show of tossing the key far, _far_ across the bedroom. Then he pads across the tile and helps pull him to his feet.

Red leans his hips back against the sink while Tim frisks him, locating the concealed zipper that runs up his left side, along an otherwise inconspicuous seam. He’s grinning slyly, watching Tim impassively as the latter slides the teeth out of the zip and tries to work out how he’s going to get the vigilante’s arms out of the sleeves without undoing his cuffs.

“Problem, sweetheart?”

Tim squeezes the kevlar, notes how unrelenting it is to his touch. “You got a knife that can cut this?”

“Rather you’d take the cuffs off.”

Tim shrugs, meets his gaze evenly. “You can shower with it on.”

Red sighs arduously, lifting his left elbow. The motion pulls at his stitches a bit, but he rolls his eyes and says, “Zipper’s under the glove.”

“Thank you,” Tim responds, and yanks the glove off, throwing it into the sink. He finds the catch for the zip when he rolls the cuff of the sleeve down, and then he switches to his other side to perform the mirror. He would have thought vigilante costumes would have a zip down the spine, like a regular bodysuit. But sides make more sense; faster shedding and better access for medical treatment.

The bulk of it hits the tile somewhere over near the door. Then Tim pauses, feeling the heat creep up his neck because okay, pants next, and this is about to get awkward, and _why_ does he have a vigilante chained up in his bathroom?

Right. Laid at the feet of the law, etcetera etcetera.

The other man is smiling, broadly. Tim can feel it grazing his cheek when he leans forward and says huskily, “It doesn’t bite, sweetheart.”

“You’re not wearing underwear,” Tim blurts, even though his hands are nowhere near the man’s lower half.

The vigilante stiffens, but doesn’t pull back, and Tim gulps.

“I, uh, tried to clean you up a bit while you were unconscious. I didn’t go very far,” he rambles quickly, panicked by the vigilante’s silence. “Just far enough to clean the uh, immediate, um, area.”

After a long, cloying silence, the vigilante exhales contemplatively and says, “You’re a nurse.” Like that explains everything.

“Yeah,” Tim croaks.

The man nods, leaning back slightly to meet his gaze. “Well, that other statement’s not entirely true anyway: I’m wearing a jockstrap. Gotta protect the goods. Kevlar doesn’t stop everything.”

“Sure,” Tim says, because he’s nervous as fuck now and his pulse is pounding loudly in his ears.

The vigilante sighs. He seems overeager to get out of his clothing, and Tim assures himself it's just because he's desperate for a shower. “You make a shit warden, handsome.”

Tim glares, and drops down to his haunches, hands going to the straps and buckles of the man's boots. He watches him with mild bemusement, shifting his weight as needed to help Tim wrestle the items off.

There's dried blood all the way down to his ankle, and that's what prompts Tim to set aside whatever bashful teenage shyness is making him hesitate.

“Forward,” he orders curtly, and pointedly ignores the other man's grin when he leans forward into Tim's chest so he can shuck the stiff kevlar off his hips.

This close, Tim can't focus on anything other than him, the way he smells of steel and sweat. There's a patchwork of faint scars, small nicks and larger cleavings across his chest, midsection and thighs, and Tim realises he's been doing this costumed gig longer than he thought. Maybe longer than Tim's been living in the city. The complimentary marks down his back in the mirror's reflection confirm as much.

“I thought you were good at this vigilante thing,” he mutters before he can curb it, his eyes tracking a hollow bit that's missing flesh on Red's upper thigh that reads _knife_ to Tim.

“Doesn't have anything to do with good, sweetheart,” the man replies softly. “We all miss the mark sometimes. My mistakes just involve scar tissue.”

Tim can sympathize. It’s not his body that’s put on the line every time he makes the smallest slip up. It must be a sobering thing, making the decision to throw yourself down for the betterment of an entire city every evening. Tim understands altruism and sacrifice; he’s in his chosen field for a reason. Doesn’t make the bad nights any easier to stomach.

“What’re you thinking about handsome? Lost in your own head?” Tim glares at the restrained vigilante’s knees, pointedly refusing to look any higher, but his glower is half-hearted. “Didn’t think I was that mundane.”  

“Do you ever shut up?” Tim asks curiously, his tone biting as he yanks the material down past Red’s ankles, sitting back on his heels.

“It's hereditary,” the Red replies, stepping out of the suit and yanking back the glass door to step into the shower. Tim has to leap back to avoid being bowled over. “Runs in the family. My older brother is a regular Henry Youngman.”

Tim shakes his head, gripping the counter to pull himself to his feet as the hiss of water rings through the small bathroom. Red inspects Tim’s collection of body wash and conditioners, muttering to himself.

Tim leans back against the sink and shakes his head in bemusement. The man certainly seems like he’s made himself at home, manoeuvring around the small cubicle with his wrists pinned and chain in tow, completely unfazed. Tim watches him pour himself a healthy helping of shampoo and scrub it back into his black hair.

He glances back at Tim as he does, a smirk settling into his lips. “Enjoying the show, sweetheart?”

Tim crosses his arms over his chest and resolves _not_ to answer that question. Because yeah, the guy’s not the worst looking specimen. He’s got enough working muscle to make an impact, and those dastardly features just wrap the whole bad boy aesthetic up in a neat bow that tugs traitorously behind Tim’s navel.

There’s no way in hell Tim will ever admit that. Instead, he crooks a single brow and asks coolly, “You have any allergies I need to know about?”  

Red huffs to himself, as if Tim’s facade is amusing to him. “So you’re not hung up on being my warden anymore? Now you’re my butler? Certainly an improvement on my last one, at least in looks.”

Tim feels his cheeks heat, and he scowls. “Allergies,” he repeats firmly.

“Yeah, peanuts,” Red replies.

Tim frowns. “You’re allergic to nuts?” 

Red waggles his eyebrows and offers Tim a grin as he rinses out the shampoo. “Not all nuts,” he says in a low, suggestive tone, and that’s the final straw for Tim.

He rolls his eyes, making sure he slams the door behind him as he makes a swift, unamused exit. Tim most certainly doesn’t acknowledge the small part of him that’s charmed by Red’s sharp (if crude) wit. 

He resolves to make omelettes, because he figures that’s the safest bet, and he’s only got enough eggs for one meal anyway. He packs away the rest of the groceries as he waits for the pan to heat, and then plates it all up on two slices of toast. 

When he shrugs back into the bathroom, a plate on each arm, Red’s extracted himself from the shower and has towelled off for the most part. His hair is still damp where its plastered to his forehead, and he glances back at Tim as he finishes wrapping the towel around his hips. 

“Is that lunch?” 

“An attempt at it,” Tim replies, and offers him the plate. He glances down at the abandoned pieces of bodysuit, still stained with rust red. “I’ll get you some clothes.”

Red snorts, taking a huge bite of the omelette-on-toast. “No offence, darling, but I don’t think anything you own is going to fit me.”

Tim meets his gaze evenly, setting his own plate on the counter. “You could tell me which apartment’s yours. Then I can get you some clothes that fit.”

Red offers him a coy smile. “Not that cute, handsome. I expect to be properly romanced before I take you home.”

“Charming,” Tim responds drily, and his gaze falls to Red’s wrists. His skin’s flushed with the shower’s residual heat, but the irritation is concentrated around where the cuffs rest, as if he’s been twisting them.

Red notes his probing stare, and shrugs. “Can’t fault a man for trying.”

“Unsuccessfully,” Tim points out, and turns back into the bedroom to retrieve some clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Hope the extra long chapter makes up for it.  
> More shenanigans to ensue!


	5. Blind Man's Bluff

Jason leans over the plate of steaming spaghetti bolognese that he has propped on the closed toilet lid, twisting his fork idly through the creamy strands as he watches his captor work. The man is kneeling between his crooked knees, close enough for Jason to feel the soft wash of his breath when he exhales. He hasn’t missed the rosy blush the proximity has drawn to the man’s cheeks, but his attention is single-mindedly fixed on the wound across Jason’s stomach, a professional methodology to his movements. 

Jason pushes together a forkload of mince and tilts over to scoop it into his mouth, ignoring the absent huffed disapproval as it pulls at his oblique. 

“It’s healing,” the man mutters finally, and Jason winces as his gloved thumb prods at the seam of his stitches. The man scrapes gently but firmly at the dried blood still coating the threads with an alcohol swab, dislodging the remainder of what Jason hadn’t been able to wash off in the shower. “And I’m not seeing any discharge, which indicates there’s no infection taking hold. That’s a good sign.” 

“Did you use bay leaves in this?” Jason asks as he sits back on his heels, gesturing to the plate. 

The man’s blue eyes flicker up, just a tad reproachful. He seems defensive, and if Jason had to guess, there’s some guilt in the downturn of his lips. Perhaps he’s having second thoughts about being a part-time warden. “Yes.” 

“It’s good,” Jason offers, and watches the fluorescent lighting overhead draw his features into terse lines. 

“Good,” he answers shortly, and shuffles back a few inches. “Turn around.” 

Jason doesn’t shift, chewing stoically as he holds the man’s gaze. “You’re seriously planning on leaving me here, unsupervised, for your whole shift.” 

The man scowls, his blue-gloved fingers flexing. “I have to take my shift.” 

“You could cut me loose,” Jason suggests with amusement, but he’s not hooked on it. 

“We’ve been over this.” 

Jason scoops up another mouthful, and murmurs around the mince, “You still trying to work out if you should turn me in?” 

“Is that what you want?” 

Jason shrugs with the shoulder that he’s not got propped against his makeshift table, and the man’s gaze flashes down to his stitches as the motion pulls at them. “Doesn’t seem like you’re really giving me many options. You’re going to have to cut me loose soon enough, one way or another.” 

The man arches a brow. “I am, am I?” 

“Can’t keep me as your sex slave forever, handsome.” 

The man flushes at that, and Jason buries his chuckle in another bite. His face pulled back into its usual scowl by the time he comes back up, and the man fixes him with the full force of his glower as he repeats, “Turn around. I need to check the other wound.” 

Jason sighs and drops the fork back to the plate, bracing his bound wrists against the tile as he rolls up into a high kneel, turning until his latissimus is bared to the light. He leans his forearms up against the radiator and cranes his head back to stare at the patch of smoggy sky he can see through the open bathroom window. 

“When’s your shift end?” he prompts for conversation’s sake. 

“I clock out at three,” the man replies absently, prodding gently at the torn flesh. He grunts irritably in the back of his throat. “Your stitching skills could really use some work.” 

“Nah, that’s why I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Jason drawls, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “To patch me up and kiss me better whenever I catch a stray bullet.” 

“Sure,” the man says, guarded, and Jason snickers. 

“You’re warming to me,” he points out lightly, and can sense the man’s scowl deepen. The silence lingers until the man taps the rise of his hip absently, and Jason slumps back down into a sit. 

The man curls back up to his full height, tugging the gloves off as he frowns to himself. “I’m going to need to get you a course of antibiotics. Just for precaution,” he adds hastily. 

Jason shrugs, smirking up at him. “You’re the nurse, sweetheart.” 

The man’s gaze is probing and analytical, guarded behind those blue lenses. “Why are you being so cooperative about this?” 

Jason’s lips curl into a smile. “You think I’m not naturally cooperative?” 

“No.” 

He chuckles, and stalls for an answer as he polishes off the last of his meal. He offers the empty plate up with both hands, and the man takes it with a frown. “I’ve been nothing but cooperative so far.” 

The man glances away to set the plate atop the countertop, and Jason takes the opportunity to pull himself up to his full height. He’s gotten surprisingly good at moving around hobbled; the chain’s hardly a bother, and he’s acclimated to the cuffs over the past day. It still pulls angrily at his stitches whenever he moves so quickly though, and Jason has to remind himself that he did take a bullet last night, so maybe he should be a bit more respectful of his body. 

The man takes a wary step back, but Jason just smirks as he rolls his shoulders, stretching out the muscles of his neck as he surveys him. He’s got a good seventy pounds on his warden, and nearly a half foot of height on top of that. Jason knows he’s intimidating, even half-naked and handcuffed in another man’s bathroom. So he settles his weight, cocking one hip as he surveys his flustered captor. 

“What am I going to do for eight hours?” 

“What do you mean?” the man says, clipped. 

Jason gestures broadly to the bathroom. “I don’t see any sudoku puzzles. Or novels. You got something to keep me entertained while you’re on shift, or am I expected to karaoke _Night at the Opera_ for your lovely neighbours til three a.m.?” 

“Threatening me is not going to get me to let you go,” he warns, and Jason grins casually. 

“Who says I’m threatening you?” 

The man gives him a pointed sweep with that icy blue gaze, snapping his eyes back up before they can linger too long on his lower half. Jason lets his grin spread across his features, but keeps his tone light and playful. 

“If I was threatening you, you’d know it. So what am I doing for eight hours, oh considerate warden?” Jason prompts, and adjusts the sweatpants the man has fished out for him. They sit snug around his hips, a few sizes too small, and ride low against his midriff. He catches the man staring in the reflection, and then the flush that lights him up when Jason arches a brow at him. 

“I’ll bring you some novels,” he says, and turns for the door. 

Jason takes one step sideways and leans his entire weight up against it, fusing his shoulder to the wood. Lets his bound hands dangle a few inches off the door handle, in case the man tries to make a grab for it. He glances up, glaring. 

“What?” he demands. 

“Just memorising the colour of your eyes,” Jason replies curtly, “while I still can. Who knows if I’ll still be here when you get back. Say, before I bust open these cuffs: what did you say your name was?” 

“I didn’t,” the man says flatly, and reaches for the doorknob. 

Jason layers the flat joinder of the cuffs over his slim, pale wrist, pressing his palms into the wood to keep it pinned as the man yelps and cants instinctually. The man’s free hand immediately circles his chain, his chin snapping up as fright flares through his gaze. 

His tone is harsh, but level. “That hurts.” 

“I’m aware,” Jason replies coolly, and shifts slightly to flatten his palms more smoothly against the wood laminate. The man hisses in pain, and glances down at where his hand is starting to turn red. It’s nowhere near as painful as Jason can make it yet, but it’s certainly not comfortable having your skin pinched beneath metal. 

“I don’t have the key on me,” the man grits out around flashing teeth. 

“I know,” Jason acknowledges. “I’m not after the key.” 

The man makes an aborted attempt at shifting Jason’s weight against his wrist, yanking sharply at the chain with his other hand. The pressure doesn’t lift. “Then what do you want?” 

“A decent novel,” Jason says lightly, and confusion paints the man’s features, slackening them. 

Jason takes the moment’s distraction to shift his weight around the pivot point of his wrists, crowding the man against the door and forcing him to flatten his spine against the laminate. He grins down at those flushed features, stopping only when the man’s free hand slips off the chain to press into his bared stomach, thumbnail skirting dangerously close to his wound. 

It’s amusing, watching that flat glare darken the man’s gaze, turning it somewhat predatory. As if he thinks he can counter Jason’s threat with one of his own. 

“Who’s making threats now, sweetheart?” Jason purrs, and the man’s nail hooks into one of his stitches. “You pull that, and you’re just going to have to resew it.” 

“Or I could let you bleed out,” he counters evenly, holding Jason’s gaze, his head tilted back against the door. His wrist twitches absently, still pinned to the door, fingers inches from the handle. 

“That’s not how the Hippocratic Oath works.” 

“I’m a nurse, not a doctor.” 

“Fair,” Jason admits, and nudges his left knee up to the wood when the man tries to skirt out from under his almost-pin. He runs up against it with a huff, his expression tinged with desperation when it returns to Jason’s face. “What’s your book collection look like?” 

“Med textbooks,” he quips, and Jason sighs and shifts his knee down a few inches until he can lean the rise of his pelvis into the other man’s hip, pinning him at two points now. Jason’s not light, and if he needs to, he can drop plenty more weight onto the man’s slim hips. By the way the man gasps in latent pain, he doesn’t need to shift much more of his bulk around before he’ll reach the man’s breaking point. 

His thumb skirts down reflexively, his palm pressing flat into Jason’s oblique as he lodges his elbow against the wood, as if the brace can hold him back. 

“What else have you got?” Jason asks calmly, as if he’s not slowly pressing the air out of the smaller man. “Any classics? Any Austen?” 

“What are you _doing?_ ” the man wheezes, and tries to twist at the same time he shoves against Jason’s waist. It moves him enough that the slip of a man can jerk out from under his pin, but not enough that Jason can’t still hold him captive by that wrist. His fingers are starting to edge into a shade of purple now. 

The man makes a sharp mewl of distress when he realises Jason’s not letting up, and then he slams his weight back against the door, hitching a knee up almost too quickly for Jason to spot. 

But he’s been doing this since he was twelve, so Jason just takes a half-step closer, trapping the limb between them as the man grunts and tries to twist free. 

“Get off me,” he orders, tone wavering. 

“No,” Jason counters calmly, and hooks his calf around the man’s other ankle, yanking. 

The man yelps as his balances slides out from under him, his knee digging painfully into Jason’s wound as he tries to drag it down to catch himself. Jason leans forwards those last few precious inches, until he’s flush against the man, compressing his lungs and trapping him completely. 

The man’s remaining free hand comes up to wrap over his shoulder, clinging for balance as his eyes widen and he wheezes, “I can’t breathe.” 

“Yes, you can,” Jason comments. “Now, do you have any Austen?” 

Confusion laces viscerally through the man’s gaze before he gasps, “No.” 

“Bronte Sisters? Dickens?” 

“Maybe?” the man chokes, and his nails bite into the meat of Jason’s bare shoulder. “Fuck, I can’t-” 

Jason steps off him, dropping the man down onto the tile with a startled yelp. His wrist catches against the metal of the cuffs, drawing a prick of blood as he lands on his tailbone and arches with a shout of pain. Jason stares down at him until he catches his breath and looks up, a flat glare layered over his eyes. 

“Asshole,” he mutters, and Jason smirks. 

“You going to get me some decent novels?” he asks, and watches the man twist his free arm up to pull at his trapped wrist. 

“Let me go,” he demands. 

“That sounds familiar,” Jason responds, and lets up on the pin. 

The man sprawls back against the tile, the sudden lack of resistance flinging him down to the floor as Jason steps back and leans back up against the edge of the counter. The man watches him warily, but doesn’t reach for the hand again, massaging his sore wrist. 

Jason jerks his chin at the door. “Call the cops.” 

The man starts. “What?” 

“I said, go get your phone and call the cops. You’re not going to let me out of these by your own volition, and I’m not going to sit here quietly if you haven’t got any decent reading material. So bite the figurative bullet and call the cops.” 

The man stares at him for a long, pregnant minute. “I don’t have a phone,” he says finally, and Jason frowns. 

“What?” 

“I got mugged, remember? I don’t have a phone. I can’t call the cops.” 

Fury laces up faster than the shock, and Jason bears forwards irritably, sharp words rising quickly on his tongue. 

And then a voice, high and feminine, rings through the apartment, accompanied by the careless slam of the front door. The smaller man freezes. 

“You would not be _lieve_ the week I’ve had!” 

Jason watches the blood drain from his face, and feels the beginning of a grin tugging at his lips. Then the man catches a glimpse of his expression and lurches hastily to his feet. Shoves him back up against the vanity cabinets, clapping a hand over his mouth. His cheeks are flushed, his expression warning. Jason just huffs a smothered laugh and grins up at him over his tight fingers. 

“Don’t say anything,” the man snarls, begs. He waits until Jason gives him a lazy nod before he reluctantly pulls his hand back, braced for a dissent. 

Jason just smiles and jerks his head in the direction of their unintended guest. 

The man’s brows pinch in concern, before he bails out the door, turning to yank it shut behind him. Jason might not be able to reach outside this bathroom, but he sure as shit can get his foot between the door and the frame if he stretches. So he does. The man stills, glancing down at his obstruction, and then he glares, opening his mouth to protest. 

“Tim, where are you?” the woman groans, and Jason hears the distinct sound of footsteps. “You didn’t answer your phone. I brought chow fun.” 

The man flushes, and abandons the door in favour of intercepting the woman before she can set foot in his room. Jason shimmies closer so that he can see through the gap, enjoying the view of the man’s forcibly relaxed posture as he leans casually across the doorway to the bedroom, barring the woman. Then Jason freezes. 

Tim? The man’s name is _Tim?_ Who even chooses a name like Timothy anymore? What kind of cruel, backwards-ass parents-

She must shimmy around him, because a woman in dull blue scrubs materialises around a dissenting yelp, crossing the floorboards to slump across the bed. Jason jerks back reflexively, wary of being caught. The chain chimes softly against the tile, but the woman doesn’t show any sign that she’s heard the commotion. Jason hears Tim move into the room, hovering near the doorway, as if he can coax her back out into the living room. 

“Johnsson is an ass,” she sneers. “He put me on a double shift again, and blocked me in over that pilates class I wanted to try out. He’s the reason I’m single. Do you know how many hot girls do pilates?” 

“I don’t know,” Tim answers absently, and Jason sees his gaze flash towards in his direction quickly, concerned. “Lots? You said you brought chow fun?” 

“I don’t think you appreciate just how much our supervisor is ruining my love life,” the woman says haughtily, and Jason hears the mattress protest as she rolls over onto her stomach. Tim casts a desperate glance towards the living room, and then a set of feet hit the timber. 

Tim lurches into movement, leaping across the room to intercept the footfalls heading across the floor. “Wait, you can’t just-” 

“Calm down,” she purrs, and that’s all the warning Jason has to skirt away from the door before it comes flying open. “I just need to pee. It’s not like I-” 

She stills, hand still on the door handle, blue eyes fixed on Jason. They trickle down his form, alighting on the kevlar in the corner of the room, before widening and snapping back up to Jason’s face. 

He offers his best shit-eating grin and lifts his cuffed wrists to wave innocuously. “Hey.” 

The door reverberates in its frame when it slams closed, the echo knocking around Jason’s skull for a good minute afterwards. It’s still not enough to drown out the argument happening behind the laminate wood, and Jason doesn’t have to strain especially hard to hear it. 

“ _Timothy Jackson Drake_ ,” the woman is practically screeching. “ _What the_ fuck _is going on here?_ ” 

Tim rushes through some sort of vague explanation-apology, the words too quick and too slurred for Jason to actually discern what they are before they’re interrupted by another shriek of incredulous rage. 

“So you _handcuffed_ him?” 

He bites down on a smirk, craning his head back and projecting his voice through the paper thin walls. “Baby,” he moans loudly in his huskiest voice, “come back in here and finish what you started.” 

There’s a few beats of absolute silence, during which Jason imagines all of the blood rushing into or out of Tim’s face, before there’s a handful of footsteps leading away from the door and then the sounds of a hissed argument. 

“Why is he in your bathroom?” the woman demands. 

“ _I_ found _him_ in there when I got home. He was already-” 

“I don’t care how he got there,” she snaps. “Why is he cuffed in your bathroom? What are you _doing_ , Tim?” 

“I thought I should turn him in,” he shoots back defensively, and Jason can imagine the rage that swamps the woman’s expression. 

“Then why is he still here?” 

If Tim gives her an answer, it’s mumbled too quietly for Jason to hear it. The footsteps return, and then the woman reappears in the doorway, a brilliant smile plastered on her face. 

“Hi, Steph Brown, nurse,” she rattles off quickly. “Quick question: you’re definitely one of those caped crusaders, and not some psychotic Arkham escapee, right?” 

Jason blinks at her. “Last I checked,” he confirms. 

Her eyes crinkle with the force of her smile. “Perfect, thanks. One moment.” And then the door closes behind her again. Jason decides immediately that he likes Steph Brown, nurse. 

“Give me the key,” he hears her say, and then Tim’s reflexive, “No!” 

Jason pushes to his feet, if only so he can lean one shoulder against the wall separating them to hear more clearly. 

“Tim, I swear to God, I will build a Bat signal on your rooftop if you don’t give me that _goddamn_ key-” 

“Fine,” Tim hisses, and then there’s the sounds of furniture being rifled through, before Steph advances on the door again. 

She jumps when she realises Jason’s leaning up near the frame, a hand flying out in a reflexive smack that he blocks easily and brushes aside. Steph clutches at her chest and heaves a breath. “Jesus Christ, do you have to be so creepy?” 

“Your boyfriend’s the one with someone tied up in his bathroom,” Jason points out coolly. 

“Not my boyfriend,” Steph and Tim say in unison, and Tim materialises a foot behind her, arms crossed over his slight chest. 

“This is Stephanie Brown,” Tim offers reluctantly, gesturing to the blonde woman. It’s completely unnecessary, but Jason gets the impression that he’s trying to salvage the situation. “We’re colleagues at Gotham General.” 

“Oh, we’ve met. As of two minutes ago,” Jason replies, and Tim scowls. “By the way, is that Drake like the duck? Just want to get the spelling right for the police report.” 

Tim pales, and beside him, Stephanie smiles sheepishly. “My bad,” she says, and then shoves Jason deeper into the bathroom so she can step across the tile. She brandishes the key at him. “But luckily I’m an excellent negotiator.” 

“Then negotiate away,” Jason purrs, but Steph’s gaze has fallen to his midsection. 

“Is that-” She spins on Tim, framed in the doorway, and he shrinks under the scrutiny. “Is that a _bullet wound_?” 

“I didn’t shoot him!” Tim snaps incredulously. “He was like that when he got here! Worse actually.” 

“He’s right,” Jason offers, and Tim’s gaze flashes to him, surprised. “I passed out. He stitched me up. Probably the reason I’m not exsanguinated right now.” 

Steph shakes her head like she’s trying to shake herself into a more sensible dimension where she doesn’t have to deal with this bullshit. “Okay, fine, alright,” she says sharply, splaying her hands in a bracing gesture. Then she turns back to Jason, key-in-hand, and reaches for his cuffs. 

“Don’t-” Tim yelps. 

“He’s not staying here,” Steph counters, and slots the key in. 

“He’ll-” 

“If he wants to knock you on your ass, I’m gonna let him.” 

Tim glares, but swallows down whatever retort he has stored for that. The lock catches with a soft _snick_ , and then the cuffs are ratcheting open. 

“Thank you, Steph Brown, nurse,” Jason says emphatically, and shakes his limbs free of the metal. It clatters on the tile, skittering away as she steps back and pockets the key. Jason doesn’t miss the fact that she plants herself in his direct path to Tim, crossing her arms over her chest. Jason smiles down at her and nods towards the pile of his costume in the corner. “May I?” 

She takes a half-step back, shuffling into a new block to shield Tim, and Jason huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Be my guest.” 

He stoops to snag his pants, gaze flicking up under her elbow to meet Tim’s gaze. His is guarded, his lips a terse line as Jason straightens. 

“Avert your gaze,” he warns, and shucks the sweats. 

Steph doesn’t flinch, a smile crooking onto her lips as she holds his challenging stare. “I’m a nurse, sweetheart,” she reminds him. “I’ve seen worse.” 

“Ouch,” he says, and steps into his pants. There’s still some dried blood etched into the kevlar, but Jason figures he’ll deal with that later. The jacket is a little easier to shrug into, and he laces the zips with quick, practiced motions. Then he lifts his gaze to Tim and smiles. “Mask?” 

Tim glares, but bends to snatch the red metal from the tile, flinging it into Jason’s open hands. His grin only widens as he slides it on, but leaves the mask up. 

“Well, Timothy Jackson Drake, this has been an absolute pleasure,” he purrs, and Tim scowls at the reminder of his full name. “Try not to be too loud with all that kinky sex you’ve been having; some of us need our shuteye.” He nods once at Steph. “Ms Brown.” 

Then he snatches up his boots, lacing them together and tossing them over his shoulder. He gives the pair of them a jaunty two-fingered salute, snapping down his visor as he kicks up onto the toilet seat and hauls himself shoulder blades first out the window. He breaches into the inky shadows of the early evening, firing a grapnel as he slides his broad hips free, and then he's gone.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, it's been a long month!  
> If you've been keeping up with my other fics, you'll know I've been focused on that Figure Skating/Hockey AU, so this one got sidelined a bit. Getting back into the swing of it now though, so hopefully I can get the next chapter out in a few weeks. See you soon!


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